


The Boy with the Yellow Guitar

by Hum My Name (My_Kind_of_Crazy)



Category: America's Suitehearts - Fall Out Boy (Music Video), Fall Out Boy
Genre: America's Suitehearts (Music Video), Blood, Dreams, I don't know what else to tag i'm sorry, M/M, Nightmare, attempt at a scary story, drug mention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-31
Updated: 2017-10-31
Packaged: 2019-01-27 13:47:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12583240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/My_Kind_of_Crazy/pseuds/Hum%20My%20Name
Summary: "That was just a dream you saw, right?""Yes. So aren't you glad you can't remember your own?"Sort of an America's Suitehearts AU





	The Boy with the Yellow Guitar

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Not much to say in the Author's Notes up here but, basically, here's my addition to the wonderful Trick or Pete collection! This one's not explicitly Halloween based, more of an attempt at a scary story. It's based loosely off one of the first Halloween stories I remember being told: The Girl with the Yellow Ribbon. If you've read that, you might see some very small resemblance. If you haven't read it, don't worry. This went way off track from that (as oft happens with my plots, haha). It also has some very slight Bluebeard influences. Not exactly a Halloween story but creepy nonetheless.
> 
> Regardless, please enjoy and have a fantastically spooky Halloween!

The way the Carnival works is that it’s never-ending. The merry-go-round is always blinking its hypnotic colors at the new arrivals; the sweet scents of burnt sugar and old perfume spread across the land. The gorgeous green waves of the rivers and lakes lap at the machinery with a loving touch; the sound of static fills the air.

At least, that’s what Benzedrine has heard. 

“Come outside, Bennie,” Sandman drawls, the way he’s done every day for as long as Benzedrine can remember. “The cameras are flashing, the audience is cheering… It’s another pretty day in our Carnival. Must you always stay cooped up in your office?”

Benzedrine ignores him, flicking a vial filled with the green goop he had Sandman collect from the Merry-Go-Round Lake. “You know as well as I that the doors are locked. I’ve tried to go outside, Sandman. Something’s keeping me here and I need to find out what.”

“I can come and go as I please,” Sandman says, slinking towards the doctor. He’s always reminded Benzedrine of some wild creature, a nocturnal predator with controlled movements and a watchful eye. He hasn’t quite discovered if he’s scared of this thought or not. “Why don’t you let me sneak you out?”

“I can find my own way, thank you. Not all of us appreciate the feeling of becoming some wicked shadow creature. Or whatever it is you consider yourself.” Benzedrine shudders at the thought of shadows coating his skin, sticking to him so tightly he can barely breathe. He’d felt it a few times before when Sandman’s gotten too caught up in his tantrums or temper. He doesn’t exactly wish to go through it again, not if he can help it. “I have to trust that I can find the way out on my own. I’m a doctor for a reason. If I can’t even help myself…”

Benzedrine trails off and lifts the vial to the dimmed light of the room, enough to see the smaller bubbles rising to the top. Not for the first time, he wishes he had some actual supplies here, real lamps and medicines instead of the makeshift chemicals and dishes he hardly knows the name to. 

Who’s he kidding? He wishes more than anything that he could __ go outside, wishes his pride and stubbornness wouldn’t get in the way of telling Sandman  _ “please, god, yes, I want you to help me escape _ .”

But he’s been working on his  _ own  _ escape plan for far too long to turn back now. 

Well. It feels like it’s been a long time. He’s not quite certain how long he’s been trapped. 

He doesn’t even know why or how.

He knows he woke up one morning— or afternoon or night, it’s hard to tell in a room with no windows— to this makeshift office and with no memory of how he had gotten there. A fine layer of dust covered the desk and bed; cobwebs hung from the ceiling. Bottles and vials of brightly colored liquid winked at him from the molding shelves.

And a man with a sharp-tooth grinned and glowing eyes watched him from the corner. He hadn’t said anything, hadn’t done anything, as Benzedrine awoke. The doctor had run his hands over the soft silk of his brightly colored suit— a yellow shade that the shadow man stared at for far too long— and yanked at the brim of his hat. He’d found a mirror and tried to see if recognizing himself would help him to understand why he couldn’t remember a thing at all. But the painted face that greeted him— rosy red lips and blushing cheeks, darkened eyelashes and unnaturally blue eyes— only served to horrify him more.

Finally, the shadow man had spoken: 

_ “It looks like you’re the new Carnival doctor, sweetheart,”  _ he’d said.  _ “How about you fill me up with your biggest dose of benzedrine?” _

If Benzedrine had known that giving in so easily would lead to the foolish nickname he has now, he would never have agreed.

“I don’t know what you think your potions will do,” Sandman says, bringing Benzedrine back to the present. “They’re nothing more than an unhealthy mix of stimulants and sedatives. And you don’t even know which ones are which.”

“I’m hoping that they’ll help me remember,” Benzedrine says, ignoring the second part of Sandman’s statement. He’s right, not that the doctor would ever admit that. “And if you’re going to be nothing more than a pest, you might as well leave.”

Sandman’s eyes flash an electric shade of blue, the small lights in the room flickering as his shadows climb the wall. It lasts for only a second but Benzedrine still finds his breath trapped in his throat when Sandman starts walking over, a threatening snarl still lingering in the air. With his warm brown eyes and comforting voice, it’s easy to forget that Sandman's not a typical Carnival citizen. He’s an employee, a worker, a  _ monster _ .

_ It’s nothing _ , Benzedrine scolds himself, shaking his head with a frown. Sandman would never really hurt him. Benzedrine’s just on edge, imagining more reasons for why he needs to escape. Still, that doesn't stop him from backing away from Sandman, unsteady steps putting a small distance between them. 

“Take a break,” Sandman says, stealing the vial from Benzedrine’s shaking hands. “You’ve been at this for hours.”

“I’ve been at this for  _ weeks _ ,” Benzedrine snaps, taking a wild guess at how long he’s been here. Sandman raises an eyebrow and Benzedrine’s reminded of how he once hissed that the time in the Carnival works differently. Differently from what? Benzedrine’s home? His real life? The doctor collapses onto the bed, fingers curling into fists around the fabric. “I’ve nothing else to do.”

“You can make some actual medicine for me to pass out when I leave,” Sandman suggests, setting the potion down on the desk and walking towards Benzedrine. The vial tips over and the liquid inside burns into the wood of the desk, a dark smoke rising from it. Benzedrine winces. Maybe it was good for Sandman to take that one from him. 

“Oh, wait, I have a better idea” Sandman continues, leaning over Benzedrine with a hand of either side of him. He nuzzles his face into the doctor’s neck, pushing him back with more force than necessary. “We can spend some  _ quality  _ time together. It’s been so long, Bennie…”

Benzedrine moans before he can stop himself, Sandman’s breath warm against his skin. When they first started doing this— first explored feelings and physical sensations like the Normal Land humans Sandman visits each night— Benzedrine had displayed more hesitation than he’s sure he ever has before. It took forever to get used to the feeling of Sandman’s hands— slick with shadows and dusty with darkness— running over his skin; it took even longer to learn to enjoy it. 

But Sandman’s smile was always closest to genuine when they were together in Benzedrine’s bed. He’d laughed about how virginal Benzedrine was about everything the first time, joking about how he must have experienced things like this before only to forget them. It was a turn on for him, it seemed, to think that Benzedrine couldn’t remember any other sexual endeavors, that he’d only remember Sandman.

It took a while but Benzedrine learned to appreciate that, too.

Sandman licks at Benzedrine’s neck, freeing a groan from the other man’s throat. His shadows twitch along the wall, spectators for their sport, as Benzedrine tugs at Sandman’s cloak, aching for something to touch.

“Sand… Sandman,” he breathes, face flaming as Sandman grinds against him. His body reacts immediately, lust and want filling him as easily as his drugs do.  _ Fuck _ , he wants this. He wants more than anything to give into Sandman’s actions, to lay back and add another memory to the vault he’s been making. But his mind isn’t entirely invested in what’s going on. A stray thought catches in his brain like a piece of clothing snagged on a branch and he forces himself to pull away. “Not now. There’s too much on my mind.”

If Sandman’s disappointed or upset, it only shows in the way his shadows bristle. Otherwise, his face is sympathetic as he pulls back. “Like what?”

Benzedrine should have expected him to ask. That doesn’t mean he wanted him to.

“My dreams,” he says. “I can’t stop thinking about them.”

Sandman— the carrier of dreams and collector of nightmares— stiffens. “What about them? Have they been bad? I can change that if you—”

“No,” Benzedrine interrupts, sliding his hands down Sandman’s chest as if to distract himself. “It’s not that they’re bad… It’s... It's that they’re not there at all.”

Sandman’s head tilts to the side and his confusion and concern slip away. “Oh. Is that all?”

Benzedrine looks away, refusing to answer. Sandman finds it silly, of course. He doesn’t take it as seriously as Benzedrine, he doesn’t understand that there are small memories in dreams. He doesn’t realize that Benzedrine wakes up with the thought that, maybe, he had a dream. Maybe the lingering feelings of soft caresses and laughter are more than wishful thinking. Maybe the bright colors behind his eyes and the names filling his ears are more than dirty Carnival tricks.

Maybe the reason all these details slip away from him so suddenly is that they’re the key to his escaping.

Sandman groans. “I’ve told you time again, Bennie. Dreams aren’t worth pursuing. No one knows dreams better than I do. They’re fun but, in the end, they make no sense and will only leave you more confused than before. Why do you think I work so hard to create the perfect dreams for everyone each night?”

Benzedrine bites his lip, lipstick dragging across his teeth only to reappear back on his bottom lip a second later. He’s learned not to question it. “Then create a dream for me.”

“What?” Sandman asks, sounding stunned for once. Benzedrine meets his gaze, ignoring the warnings he finds there.

“You heard me,” he says. “Give me one good reason to ignore the fact that I’m missing out on something that, according to you, everyone has. Go ahead, Mister Sandman. Bring me a dream. Bring me proof that this stupid room and this messed up world are where I’m supposed to be.”

Sandman’s silent. 

And then the lights start flickering fast enough to make Benzedrine shriek. The shadows start growing, start hissing. An inhuman growl grows in Sandman’s throat, his eyes lighting up as his teeth sharpen to shark-like points. 

In an instant, Benzedrine finds himself shoved back on the bed, Sandman above him.

“You know, Bennie,” he purrs, the lights still dimming and brightening with enough speed to give the doctor a headache. “There’s this dream I saw a long time ago that I haven’t been able to stop thinking about. I saw it in Normal Land years ago, before you arrived. Would you like to hear it, Bennie? Would that make you better? I haven’t told anyone, after all. Maybe it can be a bonding experience.”

Benzedrine should say no. He should shove Sandman away and snap that another person’s dream isn’t the answer to his questions. But the weight of Sandman over him and the thought of his teeth so close to his throat keep him from acting on any of these thoughts.

He means to say something soft like “go ahead”. Instead, Benzadrine only has the strength to nod.

Sandman grins, twisted and glinting like a piece of shattered glass. Static plays in the background, a song on repeat.

“Good,” he says. “It begins like this…”

<><><> <><><> <><><>

_ It begins like this: There once was a boy known best by his yellow guitar.  _

_ It was more golden than anything, that guitar of his. It hung on his wall and glittered at all hours of day and night, outshining the sun and the stars in the amount of time it took to blink. It sparkled with the fury of all the planets; it glistened like a teardrop in the morning light. It contrasted to the boy in every way. This boy was dark hair and tan skin, hot eyes and sharp edges. The guitar was everything he was not, bright and cool and smooth. _

_ It was perfect. _

_ The boy never spoke of how he received such a precious thing, changing the story each time he was asked. _

_ “My dad gave it to me. It's a family heirloom,” he told a classmate in middle school. _

_ “It’s made with stardust and will burn if the wrong person touches it,” he said in high school, a cocky grin on his lips.  _

_ “I dreamt it up and here it is.” He stuck with that one the longest throughout college. _

_ When he first moved into a real apartment, out of the dorms and into the world of normal people, the first thing he did was hang the guitar up on the wall near the TV. He never played it, never touched it except to stroke his fingers along the neck with the reverence of a priest before a crucifix. _

_ The guitar was his most prized possession; it defined everything he was. No one was allowed to touch it and, soon, no one was allowed to even think of it. _

_ “Look if you want,” he’d snap. “But if you dare imagine stealing it, I will tear out your throat.” _

_ Somehow, no one doubted he meant it. _

_ The Boy with the Yellow Guitar. That’s how he was known. That’s how he was content to stay. _

_ But then he met someone as special as the guitar— someone as precious as the instrument he’d cherished for so long. _

_ The Boy with the Golden Smile. _

_ Golden. Stunning. Brilliant. He was everything The Boy with the Yellow Guitar thought he would never find in this life— or any life at all. _

_ He didn’t appear golden at first, not with that temper or oversized hat. He hung around the library, fingers flying through pages of myths and legends at any given hour. He’d claimed it was for a class project, that he went to the nearby college. The Boy with the Yellow Guitar had claimed that it was fate, smiling like a Cheshire cat. This boy, this Boy with the Golden Smile, held himself with the subtle fury of the universe; he stood out like a lover’s moan at midnight. He was like the guitar in every way. He was light hair and pale skin, soft eyes and softer edges. _

_ He was perfect and the Boy with the Yellow Guitar needed him in a way he never needed anyone else before. He needed him like a key needed a lock; he needed him like a pick needed a guitar. _

_ He needed him because, once he had him, he knew he’d be able to control him in every way. He’d be his new guitar, one he could touch and play any time he wanted. One that people would stare at for twice as long; one he could claim in ways one never could with an instrument.  _

_ He needed him and he never doubted he would get him. The Boy with the Golden Smile was made to be found by The Boy with the Yellow Guitar, he was sure. _

_ They never took the step from friends to lovers, never had time to waste with games of crushes or flirtations. The Boy with the Yellow Guitar made sure of that. He ran his hands over The Boy with the Golden Smile, marking him with fingerprint smudges and dented strings. He held him like a lullaby; he played him like a wrinkled page of lyrics. _

_ They fell in love quicker than love was supposed to happen— strangers one day, inseparable the next. The Boy with the Golden Smile would joke about breaking the rules of relationships; The Boy with the Yellow Guitar would joke about breaking the rules in general. _

_ The morning after their first night together, wrapped in promises and filthy sheets, The Boy with the Golden Smile wandered into The Boy with the Yellow Guitar’s TV room and asked the question he’d avoided for so long. _

_ “What’s with the yellow guitar?” _

_ “I dreamt it up and here it is.” _

_ “No, really. Where’d you get it?” His hand stretched out, aching to touch and play. The look in his eyes carried the same hunger that appeared when the other boy looked at him— not that he knew or believed that. _

_ The Boy with the Yellow Guitar was at his side in an instant, cold fingers wrapping around his wrist and yanking him away. No gentleness coated his actions; nothing but the urgency and quiet chaos of secrets were found in the way he pulled the other boy close to his chest. _

_ “This guitar means more to me than almost anything else. I’m sorry but I can’t let you touch it.” He paused, grip loosening. “Not yet.” _

_ “Then tell me where you got it,” the other boy said. “Tell me why it means so much.” _

_ Another hesitation, another second of a slackened grip.  _

_ “Let’s just say it reminds me of home. It keeps me tethered away from reality, grounded in everything that isn’t normal.” His eyes focus on the strings, pitch black against the glistening instrument. Even darker against the white pick trapped beneath them. “My father gave me the guitar when I first came here. He said it’s a tool to help me catch my biggest dream. I can’t go home until I find my dream. That’s the way my family works. I’ll keep living a thousand lives, being born and being killed, until this guitar has trapped my dream.” _

_ The Boy with the Golden Smile was silent before, in a small voice, he muttered, “that’s a really fucked up metaphor.” _

_ The Boy with the Yellow Guitar let him go, a smile easing back onto his face as the tension cleared.  _

_ “It’s a really fucked up life.” _

_ In the following days, The Boy with the Golden Smile treated the other boy’s words like a confession to a therapist. He sat with him for hours, the TV playing quietly in the background, and asked him what his goals in life were. He cuddled against him late at night, the silence of the apartment like static, and whispered his own aspirations. He called him each time they were apart, left messages asking “have you found your dream yet?” _

_ It might have been touching but The Boy with the Yellow Guitar wasn’t certain he wanted to find his dream after all. He'd have to leave the second he saw it; he could only bring his dream back home. _

_ “Perhaps you’re meant to play the guitar,” The Boy with the Golden Smile said as he moved his boxes of belongings into the other boy’s home one day, finally convinced into moving in. “Maybe you’re meant to be a musician.” _

_ “That can’t be it,” The Boy with the Yellow Guitar said. “No one knows music like you.” _

_ “Then maybe I should play the guitar,” the other boy said, his eyes devouring the guitar sharing the room with them. “We can start a band and become the dream of millions of fans.” _

_ He inched closer to the guitar on the wall, pulling back when something like a growl interrupted his thoughts. _

_ “Don’t touch the guitar,” The Boy with the Yellow Guitar snapped, his expression softening before the words fully left his mouth. “Not yet, at least.” _

_ Not yet.  _

_ It became his catch-phrase, his mantra, his one constant in life.  _

_ “Don’t touch the guitar. Don’t play it,” he’d say, each time sounding kinder and less threatening than the time before. “Not yet, alright? Not yet.” _

_ With each request, a metaphor was traded. With each demand to stay away, The Boy with the Golden Smile received a snippet of backstory no one dared touch before. _

_ “Tell me why your father’s so obsessed with your dream.” _

_ “Consider it a family business.” _

_ “Explain why the guitar’s so tempting to touch.” _

_ “It captures dreams and glows with their potency.” _

_ “What will you do with your dream once it’s been caught?” _

_ “I’ll steal it away from everything that dulls it. I'll place it in a land where it can thrive. I’ll do everything I can to keep it safe. I’ll stop at nothing to steal every drop of joy from it. I will make it last forever.” _

_ The Boy with the Golden Smile grinned lazily, his fingers trailing the ink staining the other boy’s skin. “How will you know when you’ve caught your dream? And why is it so important you find the right one?” _

_ He spoke the way a teacher speaks to a fanciful child, indulging unrealities with the hope he can draw the child away from it. _

_ The Boy with the Yellow Guitar had spent enough time with such people to turn away from his offense.  _

_ “A dream can be a hundred things. It can be an inspiration, a reason to live, a power source. It can be a weakness, a vulnerability, something to be lost.” He paused, shutting his eyes as the other boy smiled against his skin. Indulging him. “Catching my dream is like a rite of passage. There are a hundred of books and movies with plots just like it. I won’t have my… my family’s blessing until I have my dream. I’ll know when I have it the same way a drowning person knows they’ve been saved. I’ll be able to breathe. I’ll be able to exist in ways that I was meant to. If I don’t find my dream I’ll… I won’t…” _

_ “I won’t let you drown,” The Boy with the Golden Smile said. “We’ll find your dream, I promise.” _

_ Indulging him.  _

_ The Boy with the Yellow Guitar grinned. _

_ The years went by like days; the days went by like years. The two fell deeper in love with each other every passing moment, their search for dreams becoming like an inside joke. The guitar never left its spot on the wall, following them from house to home when things became more serious between the two. It was never touched by anyone other than its owner; it never lost its shine. _

_ It was years later when it happened, at night with the windows locked against the storm brewing outside, exactly the way a dream or nightmare should. _

_ The fight happened over something stupid, something that wouldn’t matter in an hour’s time. _

_ The Boy with the Yellow Guitar wasn’t surprised. Like a nightmare, it was something he’d been waiting for. _

_ “You’re so infuriating!” The Boy with the Golden Smile shouted, his face twisted into something cruel. “You never respect what I say or what I want. You’re so fucking controlling, it’s insane. I always do what you want! I care about what you say! Do you know how stupid your obsession with that guitar is? But I haven’t touched it, have I?” _

_ The Boy with the Golden Smile’s face was burning red, his eyes storming with rage. His hat had been lost somewhere in the fighting, in the screaming and crying back and forth. His fingers clung to his hair like hooks, yanking with such ferocity strands came loose in his hand. Curses and insults flew from his throat. He spat horrible words at the other boy. The anger emanating from him was as thick as flames; his voice was filled with the temper The Boy with the Yellow Guitar always spied simmering under the surface of his skin. He was outrage and indignation come alive; he was a drug with every possible side effect. _

_ He was perfect and, suddenly, The Boy with the Yellow Guitar began to see. Worlds and galaxies began and ended before his eyes as The Boy with the Golden Smile shouted and raged. The music of static filled the air and everything made sense. _

_ “Touch it,” he said, speaking without realizing he’d made up his mind to do so. “Go ahead, play me a song. If it means so much to you… You have my permission.” _

_ The Boy with the Golden Smile paused, hesitated, waited. Every version of confusion crossed his face, distorting his anger into something soft. _

_ Into something perfect. _

_ And The Boy with the Yellow Guitar knew how his instrument called to those who drew too near. He knew the way it sang like a siren’s spell, unheard melodies wrapping around minds and smiles until touching the source seemed the only way to escape. He knew how easily widened eyes, like those of the boy he loved, wouldn’t believe such a pretty thing could be anything other than a blessing to touch. He knew the pulse of desire was built into its very meaning, created specifically to manipulate. _

_ He watched as The Boy with the Golden Smile drew nearer, a hand outstretched with caution as if he expected to be called away at any moment. Only his breaths filled the silence, heavy from fighting but growing shallow from the other boy’s knowing gaze. His perfect eyes remained on The Boy with the Yellow Guitar; they were looking for a reassurance, for a sign that this was allowed.  _

_ They were looking for the wrong thing. _

_ His fingertips brushed against the darkened strings. _

_ And everything fell into place. _

_ A noise like an orchestra on fire filled the air— a screeching sound of desperation and burning notes. Voices with no bodies shrieked with taunting laughter as the strings tore in two, a bursting  _ **_pop_ ** _ echoing throughout the house.  _

_ The sounds reminded The Boy with the Yellow Guitar of childhood; the voices reminded him of home. A generation of dreams shouted for freedom, begged for retribution. Promises his family had been made and wishes they had cast slipped from the woodwork in the guitar, traces of fantasy fitting into the reality he’d been forced to live in for the past decades of his life. _

_ The Boy with the Golden Smile screamed and it was the most beautiful sound of all. _

_ The strings came to life, twisting like shadows and hissing like snakes as they wrapped around his hand and arm, bringing him to his knees as the guitar shattered to the ground. They crept across his skin, sinking sharpened edges in like blades. The Boy with the Golden Smile tugged at the strings, tripping backward and landing on the ground with a terrified shriek. Blood dotted along the lines of the strings, outlines of injury as he turned, eyes wide and wild as he stared at the boy he loved. _

_ “Help me!” He cried. “I don’t know what’s happening!” _

_ But the Boy with the Yellow Guitar did and that was more than enough. _

_ The Boy with the Golden Smile’s mouth opened in a soundless scream as the boy before him began to transform. Shadows covered The Boy with the Yellow Guitar's body, a coat of creatures that shouldn’t have existed. His mouth widened and wouldn’t stop, tearing his face in two as he laughed along with the twisted guitar. His bones cracked and reformed, teeth sharpening and glinting in the same way that the guitar would— a pristine white that promised to stain red if they ever were given the chance to sink into the skin of the trembling boy beneath him. _

_ The storm in The Boy with the Golden Smile’s eyes took over his entire being as a wind without a source filled their home. His body convulsed with terror as he tore at the strings, more of them arising to capture his free hand, cutting into him without a care. He howled in pain, the sound covered by the roar of his lover’s laughter, sobbing and kicking at the ground as he tried to back away. The guitar, though, weighed him to the spot, an anchor filled with fears he could never have imagined feeling. _

_ The Boy with the Yellow Guitar— and the smile made of nightmares— stared down at his prize. The Boy with the Golden Smile’s face had gone bloodless, an ashen tone taking place of the porcelain shade that had been there before. He could blame it on the dread radiating from the boy, the fear and horror found in each of his lovely whimpers, but it was more fun to realize that the guitar had found the dream inside him, had started pumping his untapped purity and goodness into its veins. It was much more pleasurable to take notice of how dull this boy had become; it was more amusing to imagine all the ways he’d color him when he brought him home.  _

_ The Boy with the Yellow Guitar became all too aware of how his eyes were glowing, how they filled the room with a haunting blue-white light. The power of the house had gone out long ago, the effects of the shadows finally freeing themselves from the walls and corners. Warmth filled him as easily as his powers did, as perfectly as his purpose for being here arrived.  _

_ “Please,” The Boy with the Golden Smile pleaded, his voice as frail as his body seemed, growing limp in the guitar’s touch with teardrops streaming down his face. “Tell me it’s a prank or… or a joke. Please, just help me.” _

_ His words were interrupted by his sobs. The Boy with the Yellow Guitar hadn’t known such sorrow could sound so sweet.  _

_ The Boy with the Yellow Guitar— the man with the twisted grin, the monster with the merciless eyes— leaned down with the grace of the shadows around him, grabbing the white guitar pick from where it had landed on the ground, finally freed from the binding darkness of the strings.  _

_ “You’ll be free soon enough, too,” he said. “Don’t worry, my dear. You’ll be better than you ever imagined.” _

_ The Boy with the Golden Smile didn’t dare to meet his eyes, shutting his own and turning away.  _

_ “This doesn’t make sense!” He sobbed, shaking frantically enough that the strings threatened to scar his arms. “Who… What are you?” _

_ The Boy with the Yellow Guitar reached out, stroking the other boy’s cheek and reveling in the way he flinched. Not enough to pull away, though. Not enough to prove he hated him. _

_ “My name is Sandman,” he whispered, pressing a chaste kiss against his lover’s trembling lips. “I’m the nightmare that steals dreams before they have the chance to really glow. And, you? You’re the brightest dream come true.” _

_ He stood, the pick pressed into his palm like a key. With a chuckle, he walked over to the TV— still playing some movie they’d been watching together before the revelations and epiphanies— and pressed the pick against the screen. _

_ The movie shut off and the sound of static— a lullaby, a cradlesong, a melody from his memories— filled the air. _

_ “You’re my dream,” he said. “And I’d be crazy to ever let you go, sweetheart.” _

_ “I don’t want this!” The Boy with the Golden Smile screamed. Sandman turned around to see his dream, his lover, his golden smile staring at him with eyes so wide they seemed ready to burst. Tears continued to stream down his rounded cheeks, his face so devoid of color he seemed dead already. “Wherever you take me, whatever you do to me, I will never forgive you!” _

_ Sandman frowned. Shadows began to twitch on the wall, inching towards The Boy with the Golden Smile. They grabbed one of Sandman’s bottles of pills off the counter— one of the dozens because nothing can ease the ills of Normal Land but hallucinogens and stimulants came close enough. The ones they obtained were one of his favorites, the packets of Benzedrine he ordered online to sate his hunger. His appetite for dreams and fears, his desire for the tears that his love was now experiencing… The benzedrine reduced his need in ways the drug was never intended to do. _

_ Now, though, the shadows— his shadows— brought the pills to The Boy with the Golden Smile. His boy had used them in the past before, had tried them on as an aid for his own mental struggles, but they didn’t quite fit. He’d claimed they made him feel crazy, overstimulated his mind and refused to let him sleep. Sandman had watched during those days, fascinated in the way the usually restrained Boy with the Golden Smile shook with euphoria and fought tremors of emotions he preferred to treat with caution. _

_ He had been taking the doctor prescribed dose at the time. Sandman was dying to see what too much would do. _

_ The shadows slapped over the boy’s mouth as he parted his lips to scream again, the sound increasing as he fought against Sandman’s helpers. Through the shadows’ relentless gag, tearing across his lips and forcing their way into his mouth, the sound of his pain echoed through the home, his expression and desperation as feral as a wounded animal that still believed it could escape. He writhed against the bonds keeping him in place, the shadows around his mouth and the strings against his arms. His thrashing grew more violent, his entire being fighting the attackers on him. His screams grew louder; his tears burned into his cheeks.  _

_ Sandman saw the exact moment the last pill slipped down his throat, recognized when the tears transitioned from terrified begging to pained resignation. _

_ The TV static grew louder, voices and words of congratulations and homecoming filling the air, but nothing could muffle the sobs of The Boy with the Golden Smile. Sandman forced himself to turn around, to look away from how the shadows— his shadows— hid that smile from view. _

_ He’d see it again, soon enough. If the Carnival didn’t distort it too terribly, that was. Sandman ran his fingers against his own perverted expression.  _

_ The Boy with the Golden Smile must be protected. His dream could not be destroyed. _

_ Sandman swallowed down a feeling as vile as the benzedrine swimming in The Boy with the Golden Smile’s system.  _

_ “I’ll never let you go,” he said. “I won’t give you a chance to hate me.” _

_ The light of the TV screen grew, blinding the creature of shadows. Before shutting his eyes, Sandman wished for just one thing. _

_ One thing... One wish... _

_ His hands formed fists as he bit back his words. Monsters like him don't get wishes, after all. _

_ And the sound of static finally stopped. _

_ <><><> <><><> <><><> _

The way that Sandman’s stories work is that they never really have an end. His voice simmers with hypnotic words; his words twist through the air with a tempting threat, asking listeners to follow them despite the promise of sleepless nights. The gorgeous brown shades of Sandman’s eyes gaze down at Benzedrine, the electric blue powers of them hidden just beneath the surface.

The sound of static saturates the silence. Benzedrine strains to hear anything else but his heart pounds too loudly and his ragged breaths sound too harsh.

Rational thoughts escape Benzedrine as the story comes to a close. He struggles to grab onto something logical, something that won’t make him sound as insane as the rest of the Carnival creatures, even as his mind races for meaning in Sandman’s words. Sandman told the tale like it was a myth, a spooky tale to whisper alone together in the dark, but Benzedrine can’t let go of the way his words match up with the details he keeps forgetting. The scenes that Sandman described are so vivid, he can see them as plainly as if he lived it. They twist— a disgusting array of colors— behind his eyelids like a nightmare strategically placed between his curiosity and fear. 

Benzedrine tries to remind himself to breathe. 

“What do you do with the dreams you collect?” Benzedrine asks when the almost silence becomes too much. 

“I bring them here,” Sandman says. “The Carnival is where dreams have the greatest chance of survival. In Normal Land, they’re forgotten within seconds— unless they stand out like nightmares do. Here, they become part of the inner workings of Carnival, hiding behind the scenes to bring joy to others.”

Benzedrine’s small room seems so much darker with Sandman hovering over him, no intention of moving away. The light dims as his shadows dance across the surface of it, tendrils of them curling together like the nerves piling up in his stomach. His heart thuds in his chest without reason; his skin crawls from the sight of Sandman’s grin. 

“That was just a dream you saw, right?” Benzedrine asks, swallowing around the unnamed fear clogging his throat. It doesn’t make sense to feel this way about Sandman’s tale; it isn’t right to be scared of meeting his eyes. He shuts his own, long enough to convince himself he’s not scared of his best friend— his only friend, his lover. Sandman often forgets that Benzedrine isn’t a Carnival monster like him, isn’t from here. 

When he opens his eyes, it’s to Sandman’s darkened gaze and sickening smile.

The monster takes his time answering, burying his face in Benzedrine’s neck and taking a deep breath. For once, Benzedrine can’t bring himself to enjoy his touch, the locked doors mocking him from the corner of his vision. For the first time, he realizes that all the locks are framed in black nothingness, are covered with the darkest parts of the room. Shadows slip in and out of the lock and he wonders how he hadn't seen it before.

“Yes,” Sandman says. Benzedrine can feel his smile— his askew teeth, his gnarled lips, his crooked  _ shadows _ — so easily on his skin. “So aren’t you glad you can’t remember yours?”

 

The sound of static is the only answer he hears.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed! Again, not explicitly Halloween but hopefully it still has the vibe of fitting in with all the other fantastic stories in this collection! Thanks to Snitches, by the way, for inviting me into this Trick or Pete Halloween Party. It was a wonderful idea :)
> 
> Have a wonderfully creepy Halloween!!


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